


Cover Me If There Is a Fire

by painted_pain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-22
Updated: 2012-09-22
Packaged: 2017-11-14 20:18:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/painted_pain/pseuds/painted_pain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean couldn’t breathe, the taste of ash on his tongue, filling up his lungs. He couldn’t breathe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cover Me If There Is a Fire

It was dark, so dark, the only light coming from whatever stars peaked through and the gnarled fingers of shadows reaching out to their feet, nails sharp as knives. Dean couldn’t breathe, the taste of ash on his tongue, filling up his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. All he could see was twisted trees, leaning down and down and down with those shadowed fingers, scraping the soles of their shoes. Trying to drag them out of their hiding place at the base of a tree.

Sam squirmed in his arms, face buried in the fold of Dean’s jacket, crying and trying to stifle the hiccupping noises, just as frightened, just as confused, maybe more because _Sammy didn’t see, oh fucking Christ, thank you, he didn’t_ see, he didn’t, he--

He was panicking and he couldn’t stop, could only take shallow breaths, could only grip his little brother tighter and tighter. Dean pushed himself as far back as he could into the gap in the split trunk of the tree they had huddled against, just space enough for him with his little brother curled up in his arms, so tight, not tight enough.

He looked out into the dark around them with wide eyes, darting from one shadow to the next, quick, quick, quicker, fingers gripping Sammy’s light summer jacket convulsively. They had no flashlight, no light, no gun because Dean had dropped his, _stupid idiot, how could you, let down Dad, can’t protect Sammy_. Dropped because the ghost had come towards him, came towards him with blonde hair and fire, the smell of fire, Dad had been trying to burn her corpse and something had caught fire, and she had looked—

“Dean, Dean, it’s alright, we’re okay. Don’t cry, c’mon, man,” Sam whispered into his ear, voice caught and breaking, hand coming up to wipe away the tears falling down Dean’s face unchecked.

“You can’t be crying, alright, crying s’for babies, you said so, c’mon, you can’t cry.” A choked giggle barely covering the sound on his scared sobs and Dean couldn’t cry, Sam was right. Dad would find them soon and what would he do? Dean had run off. Had run off scared, like a little child, with Sam’s hand in his, held there in a white-knuckled grip. Run off into the woods, supposed to head for the Impala, the safety of black and chrome, the smell of leather and gun oil, but took the wrong turn somewhere. Somehow. And dragged Sammy into this disaster.

Sam shivered in Dean’s arms, trembling with the sudden cold. It seemed sudden. Dean couldn’t feel his toes in his ratty old sneakers, a size too small, so maybe not so sudden, then, more like the slow rolling of mist down a hill. His thoughts were moving too fast, twirling in dizzy drunken circles: fear-drunk, high on adrenaline and panic. 

_Don’t cry, Dean_ echoed in his head. Again and again until he could put together what they meant, all those letters and sounds and syllables. Dean blinked. And blinked again. Sam whispered, _Dean_ , against the skin of his neck, his cold nose brushing up against his ear, knuckles digging into Dean’s chest.

All this time, Sam was trying to make sure Dean was okay because Dean was lost in the heat of flames, and Sammy was left in the cold alone, with his red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks. It was supposed to be the other way around. That’s the way it worked, the way it always worked, the way it would _always_ work.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered back into the knotted hair under his chin, tightening his arms around his brother, hugging him close to his chest. “S’okay, I’m alright, I swear.”

Sam wouldn’t look at him, kept his face where it was, and Dean felt the gusting breathes on his neck even out, calm and steady, now that Dean was.

“Sorry for dragging you out here, I just. There was. The ghost looked like—“ He couldn’t say it, the edges of his vision flickering, a weight settling down on his chest. Sammy moved, pulled up to look at him, face pale and looking younger than his ten years, his eyes bright and older still, gazing up at him with a thousand different emotions. Something a little bit like understanding and a whole lot like love. Devotion, too. 

Dean looked away. He never got it, how Sam could look at him like that.

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter what it looked like. Dad’ll find us soon, we didn’t go too far off the track, we were only running for about ten of fifteen minutes.” He rubbed his hands up and down Sam’s arms, swearing under his breath at how thin his jacket was, how cold he must be. 

“You hear me?” And Sam nodded, rolled his eyes as if he hadn’t been crying not two minutes ago, said, “I have ears, Dean.”

“Little fucking smartass.”

Sam grinned and stuck out his tongue, face all scrunched up, and Dean laughed, relief and delight building up in him until he felt as light as air. Just as he went in to give Sam a noogie, a real good one, off to their left a twig snapped, not that far away. They both froze, the chill of fear sweeping through them, until a voice called out, rough and all the more familiar for it, “Boys, c’mon out now.” They smiled at each other, shaky with relief.

“Where the hell did you get to? Now, Dean, Sam, I mean it.” And they scrambled to their feet in a tumult of crossed limbs and bright eyes and ran towards Dad’s voice, Sam already forgotten his fear but Dean could still taste it at the back of his throat, bitter and burnt.

~*~

Dad pushed Dean into the motel room and Sam stumbled in behind them, exhausted and worn out, knees weak and wobbling, still shaken and shaking, just a little bit. He had no idea how this hunt had turned out the way it did, couldn’t account for Dean’s wild-eyed fear, so much more frightening then the ghost itself, nor the mad dash into the woods, curling up against the base of the tree. He felt stupid and like a little kid, for being all wrapped up in his brothers arms but Dean had been out of his mind because of something. Because of the ghost and the fire, but Sam couldn’t quite piece it all together, like trying to grasp smoke or see the wind.

Sam tripped over the fold in the worn out carpet just inside of the door. It might have been white once, or maybe grey, but now it was splotchy and a strange dark brown that make Sam feel grossed out if he walked on it in bare feet or even his socks. He leaned up against the door until it closed and just kept leaning up against it, trying to make sense of this stupid, crazy night and his stupid, crazy, panicked brother. Made no sense, far as Sam could gather. He looked over at where Dean stood before Dad through eyes hooded with tiredness. Watched as Dad came over with this look on his face like a dark thundercloud, staring down at Dean like he was figuring out how best to tell his own son what a failure he was. Sam thunked his head back against the door at the thought, of his father always so disappointed, so obsessed and right now, God, right now, all Sam wanted to tell Dad was to shove off and leave Dean alone, let him sleep, _can’t you tell something is wrong, something scared the crap out of him, out of Dean of all people, your loyal son, the better son --_

 

This wasn’t how a family was supposed to work; too-high expectations and disappointment and bitterness. Something rose up in Sam’s throat, this big ball of jagged edges. It wasn’t fair.

The second thunk of his head against the door drew Dad’s attention, that look still on his face but nothing showing in his voice when he said, “Get into the shower, alright, Sammy? Get cleaned up and then head to bed.” And then he turned back to Dean, job done. It wasn’t fair that Dad could dismiss Sam so easily, wasn’t fair that instead of hugs, he gave drills, it wasn’t _fair_. At least he had Dean, did a better job than anyone could ever possibly do.

As he walked towards the bathroom, feet dragging, Dad started to lay into Dean, pacing in short, sharp steps in the spot where Dean held his gaze, affixed to the floor. “What the _fuck_ happened out there, Dean? You know better than to run off the track, know better than to drag Sam of into woods. You coulda gotten him hurt and lost!” He paused in front of Dean, stared at him. 

“Look at me, son.” And Dean did, snapped to attention because that had been an order, not a request. John Winchester sure ran a tight ship, Sam thought, lingering in the bathroom door, unwilling to leave Dean to weather Dad alone.

“I don’t get it. I really don’t. You _dropped your weapon_ , Dean. I thought I could trust you with this kinda thing - to watch my back.” Dad sounded disappointed and Sam watched as the blood drained from Dean’s face, as he flinched back, as if to escape Dad’s words. How could Dad say such a thing to him? Did he not get it? How much Dean wanted to be him?

 _Screw it_. Sam wasn’t going to let Dad rip into Dean like this.

~*~

All Dean could see were flames, curling around the edges of his vision, threatening to consume him and he couldn’t tell what was real and what was not. That smell, burnt and strange and cloying, that was real; the track behind them was awash with red and yellow and orange, the fire eating through the dead leaves like paper. It was coming for them, for Dean and his little brother, and this time it would reach out and catch them.

The hunt had gone wrong, so, so wrong, gun tumbling from nerveless fingers when the ghost had appeared before him, blurry and jumping, like static on a broken tv, her hair long and blonde and so completely, unexpectedly, frighteningly familiar. 

Dad had told them to run back to the car, the flames dancing behind him with murderous intent and Dean had run, blind, blinded. 

He still ran, Sam’s hand clutched in his, stumbling over the roots arcing up over the track. Dean fell and brought Sam down with him, a shocking sob ripping out of him at the sight of the red light behind them, that particular, flickering heat. He hated fire like this, powerful and opportunistic, deadly and mischievous and vicious. 

_It’s happening all over again_ , his mind screamed, _think you can escape this time, with the heat right at your heels and your brother slowing you down, the flames waiting with open mouths for you to fall again, chanting_ finally, finally, finally _, after all these years? They have her and they want you next._

Dean let out a hoarse scream, barely audible over his and Sam’s fear-filled panting breathes, he couldn’t help it, and it ripped through his vocal chords like a knife. He got his feet under him, grabbed Sam’s hand again because he had to look after his brother, that was his job, right? They started running again, Sam wide-eyed and confused, and Dean had to move, had to get away from the fire, the black smoke, the ghost behind them, back there with the grave and its not long dead corpse. The smell of it burning and Dean wanted to heave, to fall down and give up, his heart beating too fast, just like his panting, far too fast. He couldn’t think, world tilting dizzily around him.

Sam tugged on his hand, saying something, but he couldn’t hear, not through the roaring in his ears, his little baby brothers screams and cries from a decade past. Ten years and it could still make him cry like a baby, make him half-crazed with fear and panic and _oh God, get me off this track, get me away, away, away, I can’t—_

He turned sharply to the left at a right angle and pushed through the brush, into the darkness, where there was no light, just shadows from what light from the stars and moon could filter through. Perfect, yes, and he ran on, with Sammy at his side. This way lay safety. Anywhere else but the fire was safe.

They passed through the trees, trunks blurring together, the only sounds their harsh panting and the crush and swirl of dead leaves around their feet, but deadened by the endless darkness. Sam cried out in the strange half-silence, “Dean, stop, I can’t anymore. Stop. Just stop!”

Pulling Sam in front of him, he patted him down but said nothing, didn’t have the breath to form words, checked for flames because he couldn’t be sure, it had tried before, once before and it might- it might- But he won’t let it, not to his Sammy. 

“Dean.”

“Okay, yeah, yeah, sure, yeah,” Dean mumbled, spinning wildly about, looking for a place to wait, to hide, that could protect them. He spied an old tree with a weathered split a few feet ahead, a concave shape with enough space to back up into. He dragged Sam over and wormed himself in, pulled Sam into his lap, the sides of the split reaching out in something that felt like a hug.

~*~

“What happened out there, Dean?”

Dean opened his mouth to reply closed it again, shook his head, as if he didn’t have the words. Sam stepped out of the bathroom and made towards Dean, caught between the two beds and Dad, deer in the headlights if ever Sam saw one. He had to help him out, had to, Dean always, _always_ did the same for him. But he wanted to know the reason behind their flight through the forest, knew what was coming and yet Sam waited, because he hated not knowing, especially when it came to Dean.

“Answer me, Dean!” Dad yelled it at him and Dean flinched again, rocking back on his heels, and when he settled, the words poured out of him, unchecked, his voice stumbling, stuttering over them.

“I’m sorry, I got lost, I was confused. I-I couldn’t see where I was going, couldn’t see the track, I guess. Took a wrong turn. I got so turned around, Dad, the. The f—“ and Dean choked back whatever he was about to say, and swallowed it down. Refused to say it in front of Dad, whatever it was. Even Sam couldn’t know for sure. He thought he did. Something to do with the fire that spread through the dry leaves quicker than the eye could follow, swirling up around the grave from where Dad had dropped the matches. 

“Why? What happened?” Dad demanded, arms crossed and feet planted, as uncompromising and insurmountable as a sheared cliff-face. No holds for purchase, no room to climb. Nothing given away. Sam took a step closer, edged his foot forward, as if he was sneaking up behind Dad. Dean was pale, so white his freckles stood out like flecks of dark paint, artfully arranged, and his lips pressed together so tight only a thin line showed. He shook his head, for the third or maybe the fourth time, Sam couldn’t remember, refusing to speak. Refusing to show any more weakness.

Sam couldn’t take it anymore, this tortured silence from Dean and Dad’s impatient expectancy for Dean to just fall in line. He stepped out from behind Dad, placed himself between them and folded his arms, glaring up at him.

“He was looking out for me, okay? You told him to get me to the car and that’s what he was doing until something spooked me and I ran off into the forest, alright?” He tried to sound contrite or ashamed or something, but mostly he was just grateful when Dad directed that disappointed gaze from Dean to him. 

“Next time, Sam, you’re staying in the car.” And that was that. “Get to bed, the both of you. You can clean up in the morning.” John sighed and turned away, heading to the bathroom, but when he reached the door, something seemed to collapse inside him, structures breaking and falling from some strain, and he said, “I know what month it is, Dean. I know.” A stifled gasp came from behind Sam and he got it. That strange feeling of knowing but not _knowing_ suddenly popped. Oh. Oh _god_ , Dean.

“Get some sleeps, boys,” and the door closed behind a broken man. 

Sam faced Dean but Dean wouldn’t look at him, just shucked off his mud-stained jeans and climbed into bed. Sam silently did the same and curled up against Dean shuddering back, pulling the covers up over both of them.

“Dean—“

“Don’t, Sam. Just don’t,” Dean forced out in a cracking voice. Sam whispered softly _okay_ and pressed his forehead up against the top of Dean’s back, felt the muscles there soften. He curled his hands up in Dean’s old, worn t-shirt and tried not to think of the wetness on his brother’s cheeks or of the wild fear in his eyes, face pale and strange. 

Sometimes Sam felt like he didn’t understand his brother at all. And then sometimes he felt he would never understand anything better.

~*~

The night was cool and clear and dry, breath pluming in the air and all three of them surrounded by dry, dead leaves. Dad had finished digging the unmarked grave in the clearing, Dean positioned in case the ghost showed up and Sammy backed up all the way to the edge in a circle of salt with a shotgun at his feet. Dad nodded at Dean and he shifted his grip on his own shotgun, settled his weight into the balls of his feet, felt his senses ramping up with adrenaline.

The salt was poured with nothing more than gust of wind through the clearing, ominous enough on its own but not necessarily a warning. But when Dad reached for the box of matches and struck them alight, the wind turned into a howling scream, a sound filled with rage and pain. The ghost had been a woman murdered by her husband for some perceived wrong, buried in the woods behind their cabin, and had begun to return the favour to any husband who stumbled across her path, forcing them to feel her pain; she was a twisted, vindictive thing now, and very obviously felt no desire to be sent into the great beyond and destroyed. 

A swirling of smoky white shoved into Dad and sent him sprawling, the matches falling onto a pile of leaves and catching fire, through some unlucky chance, and then the ghost disappeared. Dean tensed, crouched, alert, Dad scrambling to his feet and away from the new-born flames, and in that moment, the fire was directly facing Dean. The smell of it wafted over and Dean gagged; late November, only just past the ten year mark and it sent him right back.

A burst of white smoke and the ghost was right in front of him, a twisted, smiling snarl on her face. For just a moment, awash with the flickering red, yellow, orange light and an invisible wind pushing her blonde hair across her face, Dean thought she was someone else. 

“Mom,” he choked out and his gun fell from nerveless fingers, his hands reaching towards her, _why are you here, don’t you know you’re dead, that there was a ghost, don’t leave me, Mom, not again, oh God, take me with you, please, please, let’s eat oranges on the steps, let’s eat pie before dinner and giggle guiltily clutching over-full stomachs, please--_

She exploded with a wail, wisps trailing behind and brushing up against his forehead, and for a moment, just a moment, everything was quiet, and then Dad was screaming at him from his right but it was if it came from far away, so far away. Dean turned to look at him and suddenly the sound crashed in on him, the crackling of the fire, the howling wind, Sam shouting his name, the blast of the shotgun, the screaming of the ghost; a ghost, nothing but a ghost. Only a ghost.

It was as if the whole world had sped up and Dean had to get away, had to run and run and run until all the smoke and fire and smells and blonde hair could just disappear. His breathing started coming quicker and quicker, the flames coming closer and closer, and he stumbled backwards, away from its heat. He could taste it, could feel the ash settling in his lungs, soot streaking his face; that horrible, horrible smell, like burnt meatloaf.

Scrambling backwards, Dean crashed into Sam and Sam caught him, held him up and Dean heard himself babbling, something about the fire and the heat and hair burning.

_The whole world is burning and we’re next!_

Another blast of the shotgun and Dean turned to see Dad running towards them, yelling at them. “Get to car, Dean, get Sammy to the car. Take your brother and go. Now, Dean!” The ghost appeared to Dad’s left and he blasted her away. One flash of blonde hair was enough, too much, and Dean grabbed Sam’s hand.

Grabbed his little brothers hand and ran.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2011 reversebang. I, err, accidentally forgot to put it up here.


End file.
